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At this hour Lie at my mercy all mine enemies.

William Shakespeare

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William Shakespeare
Age: 51 †
Born: 1564
Born: April 26
Died: 1616
Died: April 23
Actor
Dramaturge
Playwright
Poet
Stage Actor
Writer
Stratford-upon-Avon
Warwickshire
Shakespeare
The Bard
The Bard of Avon
William Shakspere
Swan of Avon
Bard of Avon
Shakespere
Shakespear
Shakspeare
Shackspeare
William Shake‐ſpeare
Lying
Revenge
Enemies
Mercy
Hour
Mines
Mine
Enemy
Hours
Tempest

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A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
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This rough magic I here abjure and when I have required some heavenly music, which even now I do, to work mine end upon their senses that this airy charm is for, I'll break my staff, bury it certain fathoms in the earth, and deeper than did ever plummet sound, I'll drown my book.
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I have no other but a woman's reason: I think him so, because I think him so.
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Love adds a precious seeing to the eye.
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I am misanthropos, and hate mankind, For thy part, I do wish thou wert a dog, That I might love thee something.
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Having my freedom, boast of nothing else.
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Which can say more than this rich praise, that you alone are you?
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Woe to that land that's governed by a child.
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Shall remain! Hear you this Triton of the minnows? Mark you His absolute 'shall'?
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It is not, nor it cannot, come to good, But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue.
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Pause awhile, And let my counsel sway you.
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Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.
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Great griefs medicine the less.
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And sleep, that sometime shuts up sorrow's eye, Steal me awhile from mine own company.
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The sense of death is most in apprehension, And the poor beetle, that we tread upon, In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great As when a giant dies.
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Ingrateful man with liquorish draughts, and morsels unctuous, greases his pure mind that from it all consideration slips.
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A dream itself is but a shadow.
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There's hope a great man's memory may outlive his life half a year.
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Contention, like a horse, Full of high feeding, madly hath broke loose, And bears down all before him.
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Prophet may you be! If I be false, or swerve a hair from truth, when time is old and hath forgot itself, when waterdrops have worn the stones of Troy, and blind oblivion swallowed cities up, and mighty states characterless are grated to dusty nothing, yet let memory, from false to false, among false maids in love, upbraid my falsehood!
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